Cliveden Conversations
by MrsTater
Summary: "Have you ever come across Sir Richard Carlisle? We met at Cliveden…" Mary and Richard's relationship unfolds during a series of house parties, 1916-1924. Canon-AU. Co-authored with Malintzin.
1. 1916 (I)

_**A/N: Malintzin and I have beta-read each other's fics for so long, we thought it was high time to see if we made a good writing team and could build a fic worth having. ;) What better story to start with than the early days of Mary and Richard's courtship? A word of warning: updates will likely be sporadic-although that's rather fitting considering the pairing in question, isn't it? We hope you'll enjoy this joint effort!**_

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**1916 (I)**

Sir Richard Carlisle was a handsome man, and a woman would have to be blind not to see it at once-especially these days, when men below a certain age were rare sights at house parties, and those that were in attendance did not usually return from the battlefields in as many pieces as when they left. Certainly Mary took notice of the infamous newspaper publisher when Nancy Astor introduced them on the first day of the party, not only his rather remarkable bone structure and the dimples that winked charmingly beneath his cheekbones when he smiled at her, but the commanding stance he struck in the vast Cliveden library: the hand he shook hers with was long-fingered and strong, and the authority suggested by his well-tailored business suit never quite left him even when he later traded it for evening tails.

She should not have been surprised, therefore, to see that power translate into athleticism as he strode across the lawn to meet her on the tennis courts. Perhaps it had been unwise to accept his challenge, but her competitive appetite had only been awakened by trouncing Nancy and some of the other ladies at croquet; Sir Richard's compliments on her playing-he had apparently witnessed her victory from the library window-were too delicious for her to decline another game, one she enjoyed even more for its rigor. She had not, however, counted on another sort of appeal, that presented to her in the form of a handsome man in sport whites. He sauntered toward her in an almost feline manner, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his well-fitting trousers, and her gaze raked upward over the muscular forearms revealed by rolled-up shirtsleeves and the trim waist revealed by the lightweight summer jumper.

Tearing her eyes from his physique, Mary instead met his gaze-but that was not much of an improvement, for his eyes were remarkably blue, even squinting against the glare of the early afternoon sun, the criss-crossed lines at the corners only adding to the appeal of rugged masculinity.

"There you are," she said, approaching to give him a racket. "I was beginning to think you'd thought the better of playing me. Of course, I'd still have considered it a victory-by forfeit."

A forfeit might be her best chance of victory, if Sir Richard was as ruthless on the tennis courts as he was purported to be in Fleet Street. Although, there was no sign of that trait in his demeanor when he replied.

"But a victory by forfeit never tastes as good as the real thing," he deadpanned with his most charming smile. "Far be it from me to deprive you of that, Lady Mary."

The way she arched a perfect eyebrow as she taunted him was terribly enticing, to say the least, and he felt he could make a habit of challenging her just for the pleasure of gazing at the way her eyes darkened and her stubborn chin raised in defiance.

"I thank you for accepting my challenge. Though, I have to warn you that I'm a bit out of practice."

It was a white lie by omission. Since the war started two years ago, he had been stuck in Great Britain, unable to satisfy his passion for alpinism-Scotland provided beautiful sites, but none so challenging as the Alps-and his restless nature had been tested. Rugby games had been interrupted-half the players, his cousins and nephews included, were busy getting themselves killed-and good society knew better than to start a tennis game against him, or accept to partner with him for a doubles match.

Too intense about a simple game, they said.

Raised too quickly in society to understand what sport meant to the aristocracy his recent knighthood had given him access to.

Lady Mary, however, seemed different. She had a competitive streak which he could have sensed at a ten-mile radius, and he was delighted. If she lived up to the expectation set by her proud words, the so-called competition slated for the following day would be most interesting. He might not have to pester Miss Fields to give him an excuse to rush back to the city before the party broke up, after all.

The fact that Lady Mary was absolutely stunning in her white summer dress was a delicious added bonus.

Richard took his place on his side of the field and absently played with the small yellow ball, relishing the feel of it in his palm, making it rebound again and again.

Ready to serve, he watched his unlikely opponent and smiled approvingly at her posture, the way she bent her waist and flexed her knees lightly, ready to run, her grip on her racket firm but relaxed.

More stunning by the second. The likelihood of his phoning Miss Fields again diminishing by the second, he served, hard and fast, aiming at the central line in the service court.

There was only a fraction of a second to admire the lean line of his body, the ripple of tendons in his forearms as he stretched and arched to serve the ball, and the intense concentration etched on his face, his lips pinched together in a colorless line, before all her attention was on her own movement to return the powerful serve. She did so handily, though not without effort, but Sir Richard was correct about the taste of victory. She never felt satisfied by an easy win; nor could she bear losing to an opponent who went too easy on her. Men were notoriously guilty of both offences, and she never could decide which was worse: being allowed by a would-be suitor to win, or playing against a man who pulled punches yet ultimately couldn't stand to lose to a member of the weaker sex.

Of course, Sir Richard might not be able to stand it, either, and could just as well have challenged her to teach her a lesson-though judging by the grin that lightened his face, giving him an almost boyish look as the yellow ball rocketed back to his side of the court, this did not appear to be the case. If she judged incorrectly and he did mean to crush her, Mary didn't care. She tightened her grip around the handle of her racket, enjoying the tingle in her hands as the force of her opponent's returns jarred her a little, her confidence mounting each time she saw him furrow his brow or bite his lower lip or heard a grunt of effort from across the net.

Perhaps she got a little _too _confident, one particularly forceful swing sending the ball out of bounds.

"Damn!" she swore before she could think; she hoped against hope that he hadn't heard the curse over his own heavy breathing as he retrieved the ball, and felt heat that had nothing to do with exertion or the summer temperatures prickle in her face.

But Richard _had _heard it, and as he caught the ball she tossed to him, he thought _this_ was going to be very amusing, indeed. Lady Mary had a very nice technique and she ran after the ball like a bull-terrier.

A very pretty bull-terrier who swore when she missed the ball.

The chin raised in defiance and the eyes darkened once more as she walked back to her side of the field, and Richard could feel his own smile widen. He served again, with less force, but with more spin. Lady Mary did not let this trick fool her and hit back, albeit with less force than during their first exchange. He returned the ball to the other side of the field. Her long legs brought her easily from one side to another and, quite surprisingly, her rather rigid posture hid a great flexibility as she stretched to reach the ball. However, she was at the end of her run so he attacked the net, delicately volleying the ball out of her reach.

He never was a very patient tennis player, after all.

She was a good player, and she deserved his best tennis from him.

He would make amends tonight.

Richard threw the ball at her.

"Would you like to warm up your service before we start, Lady Mary?"

The contrast of her reddening cheeks with her white dress was most endearing as she caught her breath and the ball.

She'd scarcely curled her fingers around it when she tossed it into the air again and swung her racket, catching Sir Richard's eye as she followed through with her serve.

"No!" she called out.

Now it was he who cursed as he scrambled to return her serve, but he swung just short of the ball.

"You did say I was ruthless," said Mary in her most innocent tone as he jogged after it.

Richard picked up the ball and stared at her in astonished disbelief. Who would have thought that beneath her rather aloof façadeLady Mary hid such a childlike and playful side? This game was getting more interesting by the minute.

"I remember," he replied in his most tolerant tone. Instinct told him that not taking her bait would prove most fascinating.

"Although," he continued, "I remember also saying that I respect the rules of sport much more than society's rules." Behind his line he faced her again, unable to school the amused expression on his face. "You do realize that the serving player is supposed to wait for his opponent to be ready before starting the game?"

To prove his point, he rebounded the ball a few times, waiting for her to get into position.

"Shall we begin for real?" he asked.

Richard served.

Hard and fast.

Ace.

"Fifteen-love, I'm afraid. Did I tell you I won quite a few tournaments when I was a student at the University of Glasgow?"

"So I shouldn't feel too badly if I lose?"

Mary took the ball from an onlooker who'd brought it to her, thanking her lucky stars as she noticed the gathering audience that this time she'd repressed the urge to swear-though Sir Richard had not, at least, appeared too scandalized by the slip of her poise. In fact, he appeared to be enjoying their verbal match as much as the tennis.

_If you like a good argument, we should see more of each other._

She banished the thought of Matthew and focused on the pair of narrow blue eyes watching her from across the net, attentive to her every movement.

"Even better," she went on, "_you _should feel very badly if you lose."

That did not seem likely as Sir Richard sent another strong serve her way, though she was ready for it this time and didn't go down without a good fight.

She caught his second service-to her credit, she really was a fast runner-but her arms which looked so delicate framed by the fluttery sleeves of her white dress lacked the necessary strength to return it properly. The ball floated from her side to his, losing momentum rapidly, giving him enough time to prepare a well aimed passing shot in her back.

"First rule of sport, Lady Mary…" He accepted the ball another onlooker sent to him-their little game was becoming a circus, and Richard could not help but feel irritated by this latest development. "Always think about the many ways you can lose before you start to imagine your victory."

"In other words: don't count my chickens before they've hatched?"

"I like to avoid clichés, but yes, that's about the size of it."

He made the ball rebound a few times to regain his focus, and served, giving the ball a lot of spin. As expected, his beautiful opponent managed to catch the ball quite easily. However, there was a trick and, more unexpectedly, she guessed it almost in time as the slight twitching of her wrist indicated, but that was not enough. The treacherous ball flew sidewise out of the field.

"Is it forty-love?" he taunted, getting ready for another service.

Another ace.

Now came the real test.

Usually, this was the moment when his opponent complained about his excessive fighting spirit, finished the game, and declined another challenge. This, more than prejudice against his too recently obtained knighthood, was the reason why Richard found it more and more difficult to find a suitable partner for a tennis game.

However, if Lady Mary was different from her lot as he had the feeling she was, things were about to get interesting.

The spectators had begun to walk away; Mary caught a few muttered remarks: _ought to have gone easy on her_..._beastly show-off_..._so typical of that kind. _Her friend Lady Sylvia Fitzherbert, who was engaged to the Marquess of Fletchley, called out as Mary fetched the tennis ball herself, no one having bothered to do so this time, apparently believing she was done.

"Mary darling! Won't you join us for tea?"

A glance over her shoulder revealed Sir Richard to be leaning against one of the posts that held up the net, wiping the sweat that gleamed on his brow with the back of one hand, the other fidgeting with his racket as he watched her interaction with interest.

"Tea? In this heat?" she replied, breathlessly. "I wouldn't say no to water, if you could send someone-would you, Sir Richard?"

"Indeed, I wouldn't, Lady Mary."

A footman hastened to fulfil their request, and they drank, silently, too thirsty for conversation. After dabbing at her own perspiring forehead and smoothing her hair back into place-she must look a fright-Mary returned to her position at the service line and bounced the ball several times before she met his eye across the court. The slow-stretching grin that made the dimples appear making her more confident in her decision to go against what was expected of her by the party. Especially now that most of them had dispersed.

"Honestly, how could anyone expect me to quit after just one game?" she asked, rhetorically. "I have to at least try to score, so I can come out of this with a shred of dignity intact, haven't I?"

As far as Richard was concerned, Lady Mary came out of their challenge with much more dignity than that. Of course, to the outsider's eye, the rather severe score of six games in his favor when she just scored two only proved that idiotic perspective of how ill-bred and ruthless and generally ungentlemanly he could be. However, Richard cared little about the opinion of people who only considered this beautiful game as one of their private distractions, who never played a single serious competition in their lives.

Fortunately, Lady Mary was a different creature entirely and had won her own service with authority. What she lacked in stamina and strength, she compensated for with flawless technique and a keen sense of observation: she noticed that a dolorous right ankle-the legacy of a rather confused and muddy rugby game decades ago-impeded him from changing directions with great agility at a run. When she won her service for the second time, she even gained enough confidence to contest his own service, taking the advantage twice before conceding her defeat only when he served two aces in a row. From that moment, exhaustion began to take its toll on the young woman and Richard did not need to assert his strength to conclude the set.

To be honest, the fighting spirit that she had displayed throughout the game was so refreshing-and a feast for the eyes, he had to admit, admiring the way a lock of dark hair had fallen from her coif to hang over her forehead. For a second, when he took her service for the first time, he was tempted to let her take his service back and served less forcefully. He did not make it twice as a pair of dark eyes considered him furiously, although when it was finished and he strode to the net, racket slung over his shoulder, for the traditional handshake, he almost wished he'd braved her anger and prolonged the match.

"Good game, Lady Mary," he said. For the first time since he had begun to play tennis as part of the aristocracy, these words were perfectly sincere.

Accustomed as Mary was to receiving compliments, something about Sir Richard's low rasping tone gave her the feeling that he was not accustomed to doling them out.

"Praise, indeed, from the former university champion," she couldn't resist teasing him as she accepted his hand. She was conscious of the moistness of her own palm from having been clutched firmly around her tennis racket, but then so was his, and he held it for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

_A delicate, yet deeply reassuring press of her gloved fingertips which she could still feel, two years later. _

She pulled away.

"Thank you, Sir Richard," she said, feeling out of breath once again.

She leaned her racket against the net for other players, then started back up the slope which was hemmed on either side by hedges. A glance over her shoulder revealed him to be following, a hand hooked casually in his trouser pocket.

"It probably wasn't the most exciting game _you _ever played," she said, "but I appreciated the challenge. I can't recall the last time I had an opponent who actually cared about winning. Except for my sister Edith, but that's more a sibling rivalry than an athletic one."

Richard chuckled. This detail made her more real, just like the barely suppressed swear words had earlier in the game. Behind the icy demeanour she displayed when trouncing Lady Astor at croquet or the rather fiery stubbornness she exhibited during their own game, these little cracks in the armor revealed the true Lady Mary, and Richard could not help but be curious.

_Very curious._

"I had the feeling you would never have forgiven me if I had let you win. Was I mistaken?"

Under her hat, her reddened cheeks betrayed her exertion and gave her an endearingly healthy look.

"Why, Sir Richard," she replied, trying not to let her voice sound as unsettled by how accurately he'd read her; he would have to be a shrewd observer of people for his job. "Are you so keen to remain in all your tennis opponents' good graces?"

"Not always…" he admitted with a shrug. "My opponents' feelings aren't my main preoccupation, with two notable exceptions: I always respect a worthy player, and I like a good challenge."

They had almost joined the rest of the party who strolled lazily around, china tea cups in hand, providing a rather surreal image of British aristocracy's intemporality, far from the woes of war.

"When that's the case," he went on, "I care little whether I win or lose, believe it or not."

"Then it would seem we have that much in common, at least," Mary replied. She took a glass of lemonade from a footman who approached with a tray and savored the cool tartness of it. "Do you enjoy other sports, or is it strictly tennis?"

"You should rephrase the question and ask which sports I don't enjoy." Richard took a glass for himself, managing, in spite of the heat and how parched his throat was, not to swallow it in a single gulp.

Mary caught herself watching the curve of his throat as he tilted his head back to drink, the bob of his Adam's apple between the open collar of his shirt as he swallowed. She shook herself internally, dragged her eyes back up to his. The man certainly had no trouble talking about himself, did he? Any other would have politely responded to her question by giving a simple answer, and then asking about her other sporting interests.

"Well, Sir Richard. You'll find I don't often do what I'm told I should do." She smirked and took another drink. "Do you ride?"

"Ah, the inevitable question…"

And the one he tried to answer more or less diplomatically each time a member of the upper-class decided to test the newcomer who was in their circles. The question was asked in a wondering and polite tone that could fool one into believing it was an innocuous inquiry when it was their way of evaluating their interlocutor's education-or lack thereof.

"To be honest, cricket and riding are probably the two sports I avoid at all costs." He considered his now empty glass, tracing the edge with his index finger absently. "Horses and I don't get along very well."

This was a euphemism. Admitting he had been afraid of the damn beasts since an overprotective mare chased him during a hike in the the Highlands as a teenager would be closer to the truth.

"And, even if Coubertin invented the pentathlon for the Olympics," he went on more cockily, eager to change the tone of the conversation, "I have difficulty considering horse riding a true sport like tennis, rugby or swimming."

"Of course only a person who doesn't ride would say so," Mary replied, arching her eyebrows. However, she could see Sir Richard was self-conscious about this turn in the conversation: he held his shoulders a little stiffer, his voice was huskier, and his hands were restless, fidgeting with his glass.

"No matter!" She smiled, and was relieved to see him relax slightly. "Few people do ride these days, with so many horses requisitioned by the Army. We haven't had a hunt at Downton since the war broke out."

She became suddenly attentive to the rim of her own glass. Riding to hounds, of course, made her think of a life altered long before Matthew boarded the train to France.

Swallowing the knot in her throat with the last of her lemonade, she said, "But that's rather grim talk for a fine day, isn't it? Thank goodness for house parties and tennis to remind us that not everything in the world has changed."

Richard bit his lip pensively, trying not to frown at this latest remark. The mere fact that he was attending one of these house parties was the proof that everything had changed. Before this nightmarish summer of 1914, he had been a regular guest of the Austrian embassy, planning to strengthen the links between his company and a Hungarian one. Before the war, he spent as much time on the continent as in Britain. Before the war, he had sent journalists to follow the _Tour de France_ and give lively reports that had transformed the sport event into an heroic tale and fascinated the readers.

Now, he was stuck in the damn British isles, deprived of the sporting events on which he had built a good part of his empire, forced to serve the government propaganda machine in spite of his very vocal reluctance. Stupidities like _German bullets don't hurt _left a bitter taste in the mouth when every day the letters reached families all over Britain and announced that a son or husband had perished. Idiocies like _Defend the British freedom and democracy _seemed so absurd when you were privy, as he was, to the many discussions, and ambitions, of their fearless leaders. In the first months of the war, he had refused to join the chorus - he had friends _over there_, friends whose sons had been sent to the front, foreign-born friends who used to be welcome everywhere in London. And now these same friends were called barbaric because their own rulers were perfect idiots. Worse, openly worrying about their well-being when he heard about the blockade strategy of the British Navy in the corridors of Parliament would make a traitor out of him.

Yet, Richard had jobs to maintain, investors to satisfy, and papers to sell, so the realist in him won over the pacifist. After months of resistance, he had caved, to a certain point, and the dirtiest gossip became the main topic of his papers. In wartime, people needed some diversion, after all, and the upper-class shenanigans provided that in scads.

"It's nice, indeed, to see that some kind of normalcy can be maintained in a world gone mad," he replied, his words ringing false to his own ears.

There was something in his voice, a tautness in the low rasp, which gave Mary the sense that he was not fully convinced by his own words, even as her heart clutched as though by a tight fist. _A world gone mad. _

A world where, at this very moment, Matthew might lie dead in a trench.

Sir Richard must surely share her fear for his own friends and loved ones.

"Oh dear," she said, smiling against the pull of tears. "Suddenly I'm feeling the effects of our game. I should probably go and recover, if I'm to make it through dinner without nodding off at the table."

In spite of her polite smile, Richard thought Lady Mary looked as if she had been hit by lightning.. As it was for so many of those gathered here, the ugly reality outside the dreamy confines of Cliveden was never far. Fleeing from ghosts was a never ending run, unlike tennis, an unwinnable run. Richard closed his eyes in understanding and did his best to look as if he had bought her white lie.


	2. 1916 (II)

**1916 (II)**

Pleading fatigue had brought the increasingly uncomfortable post-tennis conversation with Sir Richard to an end, yet physical exhaustion was not the enemy Mary feared at dinner. He knew it, too, she suspected, had seen straight through her with those piercing blue eyes. Newspaperman's eyes, expertly reading between the black and white lines printed on the page. Although it was a comfort to be understood and not pitied-her mother's looks of watery confusion across the table at home had provided the impetus for her to accept the invitation to Cliveden-at the same time her natural discomfiture at being too transparent to anyone made her think she ought never to have come.

Despite the sunlight which streamed in through the tall windows at half past eight in the evening, and the glow from the electric chandeliers above, illuminating every gilt surface-which seemed to be everything in the room, right down to the sheen of the gold upholstery on the chairs-the shadows of war were not entirely dispelled from Lady Astor's dining room. Viscount Gillingham, an old family friend, was seated to Mary's right and spoke continually-to her and to Lady Phillips on his other side-of his son's service aboard the _HMS Iron Duke_. Mary struggled to reconcile the image of Tony Foyle, whom she had not seen since he wore sailor suits Lady Gillingham scolded him for muddying whilst sailing toy boats in the stream at garden party, with a Royal Navy officer who might at that very moment be blown to bits by a German torpedo. Which of course took her right back to the trenches with Matthew.

As bad as the reminders from the men were, it was worse when the ladies departed for the drawing room to leave them to port and cigars and grisly talk unsuitable for feminine ears. Mary would rather Lord Gillingham's hard truths than the Viscountess' chatter over the bridge table about the trivialities of Navy life Tony wrote home to her about, such as meals in the mess hall being worse than anything he complained of in his Eton days and if only he could ask her to send some of cook's biscuits as he did as a schoolboy. _You really ought to write him, Mary, _Lady Gillingham said, _I know dear Tony would be delighted to catch up with you. _But of course all she could think of was that she ought to write Matthew…attempt to set things to rights between them…

And why didn't he come home?

She was relieved when the door which connected the dining and drawing rooms opened and Sir Richard strode through ahead of the other men. He immediately took another drink from the footman who approached with a tray. Was he, too, wearied by the effort of keeping up appearances at these parties?

Thankfully the game had just come to an end and she stood, smoothing the black lace overlay of her midnight blue gown.

Richard lifted the glass to his lips, scanning the room for a pair of brown eyes. A small smile formed when he noticed how swiftly Lady Mary excused herself from her bridge table and approached him.

She was stunning in her evening gown.

Even so-even though he had bolted from his seat the second their host decided it was high time to join the ladies again-Richard joined her with measured steps. There was no need to attract more unwanted attention than their little match already had.

"Your bridge partners look quite solemn. It's a nice change from the blind triumphalism in the dining room. Did the ladies have a more sensible conversation about recent events than the gentlemen?"

Ordinarily, Richard enjoyed the ritual that followed dinner in aristocratic circles. The few minutes during which men were left to themselves provided a rare opportunity for freer speech. The women's absence allowed the gentlemen to abandon the cloak of decency-one might be tempted to talk about hypocrisy-and port tended to loosen minds and tongues. In these moments, it was easy to gather valuable information and even secure a contract, a handshake between gentlemen being as official and definitive as a formal signature at the bottom of a page.

However, since the start of the war, Richard tended to find this time less enjoyable, even increasingly unbearable. The short-sighted nationalism that disguised itself as respectable patriotism unnerved him to no end. Would it hurt so much to admit that the British objectives in this war were as sinister and cynical as the German ones? Would it be wrong to say that the strategy used in the Somme since the beginning of July was an utter disaster? More and more often, Richard found himself silent, smoking his cigar absently, willing the minutes away like he used to do as a schoolboy. Tonight was not an exception.

Mary's eyes widened slightly at his statement and the lack of patriotism it hinted at, but whatever his views were-and they couldn't be _too _radical, could they, or the Astors wouldn't have included him in their party?-she was determined not to think of the war any more tonight.

"Recent events?" she said. "Not unless the gentlemen discussed the ones in the latest _Sketch_."

Sir Richard's gaze had drifted downward from her face and she followed it, discovering that her gloved fingers were fidgeting with her black beaded necklace. She lowered her hand and smiled.

"Of course I trounced them all at bridge," she said.

Lady Mary was not a very good liar or, at least, she was a very imperfect one. Granted, her poker face was masterful, from her hard stare to her raised eyebrow. However, her gloved hands told another story entirely, stating clearly that war was not a topic she desired to broach, this evening no more than this afternoon.

Good, that made two of them.

"Since you still seem to be in a competitive mood, have you considered my proposition for tomorrow?" He followed her lead and changed the subject happily. The less he was involved in talk about the war, the less likely he was to sabotage is hard-earned new social position with one of the many non-patriotic comments that burnt his tongue at times. "Would you like to team up with me for the doubles competition organized by our generous hosts?"

A laugh from the direction of the bridge table turned Mary's head; she just had time to glimpse Sylvia, who'd tried to lure her from the tennis courts earlier, looking down her long nose at her before she masked the expression with a smile. It was all Mary could do to restrain an eyeroll. No matter what was going on in the world, nothing attracted attention like two members of the opposite sex acknowledging each other's existence. She probably ought to refuse him if she didn't want Mama to greet her return to Downton with an inquisition.

As she returned her attention to Sir Richard, who had slipped his hands into his trouser pockets in a self-conscious mannerism of his own, she saw, too, that an expression of almost boyish hopeful expectation softened his sharp features. If one was going to invite a bit of gossip, who better with than a man who made a living off controlling it?

And if it was for diversion that she'd agreed to attend Lady Astor's party, what better than sport? The allure of competition was much too appealing to resist-she could almost taste the sweetness of their certain victory-as was the allure of the man before her, on whom lingered the earthy, masculine scent of cigar.

She had made up her mind to accept his invitation, but of course she couldn't be _too _straight-forward about it.

"That depends on why you want to partner with me," she said. "Do you think I'll improve your image as a ruthless, overly competitive-"

"You two!" Nancy Astor's American twang interrupted, and she placed a hand on Richard's shoulder in that too-familiar way Americans had. "Why don't you continue your _tête_-à-_tête_ over a waltz? The orchestra's all warmed up in the ballroom!"

Richard watched with amusement as Lady Mary's face half froze in disapproval. Obviously, in spite of her American origins-before dinner, Lady Astor had commented that his tennis partner was half American, the daughter of a buccaneer from Cincinatti, no less-the young woman did not agree with the more relaxed and familiar manners from the other side of the Atlantic. To be honest, he had needed a full stay of several weeks when he had first traveled to America as a young journalist eager to see the world for himself to get used to these habits, and another stay a few years later to be able to reciprocate naturally. Now, he barely paid attention, and responded in kind.

"Well, Lady Astor, you do know I am quite picky about music…" He tried the easy way out. Of course, he wanted to spend more time in Lady Mary's exclusive company, but he did not wish to invite scrutiny. To this day, he had been a perfect disappointment for the people on the look-out for the merest gossip, and he intended to remain such a disappointment.

Not that he lived like a monk.

He just was a discreet man, and a hard working one. A middle-class man who had ascended the stairs of social hierarchy simply because he could not stand to work for people more stupid than he was. And there were a lot of them, protected in their ivory towers thanks to their birthrights, presently leading the British youth to the slaughterhouse because of their stupidity.

"Do your toes still hurt from that waltz with Lady Fitzgerald? It was three years ago!" Lady Astor playfully mocked him. "Have no fear, Strauss is banned until the end of the war, so you have no excuse." She gave him a little shove to the shoulder. "Now go, I need competent dancers as much as I need good players tomorrow."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to test what kind of partners we make in the ballroom before we commit to the tennis court," Mary said with a shrug; it was one thing to agree to do a thing to please a hostess, but best not to appear too eager-to Sir Richard as much as to the other guests.

Not that she didn't want to dance. She adored it, and opportunities to do so these days were almost as rare as opportunities to ride. But after the gossip she'd already been subject to thanks to Edith, she couldn't be too careful.

Which included not being left behind by the rest of the party. She turned to follow the others out of the ballroom, but couldn't resist a glance back at Sir Richard as he fell into step behind her, setting his empty wine glass on a side table.

"Or are you worried about injured toes? It might be more fair to the other players if you're handicapped, though I don't make a habit of treading on my partners' feet."

"I never suggested you did, I only voiced my reservations about this puzzling enthusiasm for waltzes that are a true challenge to anyone but the _bona fide_ Viennese aristocracy," he answered pleasantly, keeping a reasonable distance between them - to respect propriety and to admire the way the dark blue dress fit her thin structure.

Her gait was fascinating, betraying years of stubborn control of her every moves. Part of this came from her upbringing, surely. However, anyone with a sense of observation could see how much this control came from her own character.

Lady Mary wanted to project nothing less than an image of a perfectly controlled and studied allure.

As they walked into the ballroom, the first notes of the _Waltz of the Flowers_ resounded - playing Tchaikovsky could be considered patriotic, in honor to the courageous allies of the British, or the idiots who had dragged them to the slaughterhouse, depending on the point of view. Richard shook his head. He really should stop harboring such bitter feelings, especially when he was surrounded by people who believed the justness of the Allies' cause.

He still followed Lady Mary, two steps behind her. Under the dark blue satin, he could see the subtle movement of her shoulderblades. Two long strides were enough to catch up with her and invite her before anybody else could.

She accepted without hesitation, placed her hand in his upturned palm, and allowed him to lead her onto the parquet dance floor where several other couples already twirled to the Tchaikovsky tune. As his other hand settled at her back and hers on his shoulder she felt the muscle beneath his lapel. Banishing the image that leapt to mind of his powerful tennis serve, she arched an eyebrow at him and said, "Since you don't share our enthusiasm for waltzes, Sir Richard, what sort of dancing do you prefer?"

The question was innocuous enough for appropriate conversation over a dance, containing just the right note of flirtation, yet Mary meant it in part to tweak the criticism of the aristocracy that had underlined so much of the publisher's remarks.

"Actually, I'm not contrary to waltzes on the whole," Richard answered as he began to move slightly to get into the right tempo and start to waltz, leading his partner to the middle of the ballroom, careful to avoid any embarrassing collision. "Only to Strauss. His tempos are far too erratic to dance properly. On the other hand, polkas, danced with the right partner, can be real fun."

Unwanted memories of evenings at the Austrian embassy in London, of joyous visits to his friends' homes in Vienna, Opatija came back to his mind. The furtive image of blonde widow he met back then imposed itself. There might have been something, if only he had been able to visit her in the summer of 1914 as he'd promised. He hoped she and her children were not suffering too much from the blockade at this very moment.

_Elsa…_

Richard focused on the music and his current partner once more. Lady Mary, in spite of the rigidity of her posture, was a very skilled dancer. She was light as a feather in his arms and followed his lead perfectly.

"Generally, I tend like anything America, North or South, sends our way. And, at the risk of sounding like some kind of a caricature, I do enjoy reeling very much."

The latter information delighted Mary, though she managed to squelch too eager an outburst.

"Well, I'll admit I'm not devastated that Strauss is deemed unpatriotic these days," she deadpanned. Noticing the deepening of the lines about the corners of Sir Richard's eyes and mouth, however, which surely indicated some unspoken feeling on the subject, she quickly changed it.

"As for the American music, my sister Sybil's been known to play a little ragtime." Grandmamma was always sending them sheet music, much to their music teacher's chagrin. "Of course I'd never admit to dancing to it."

She had, though, with Patrick; he'd insisted, before his ill-fated voyage to America, on learning the dances he would encounter there.

That was a sad thought-not as sad as it should be, but sadder than it perhaps had been, especially in light of current events-and she allowed herself to give in to that happier emotion her partner's earlier statement had stirred. It was not difficult to do, for despite his remarks about the difficulty of waltzing, he performed the steps flawlessly, his leading arm steady and his footsteps sure, graceful in that purely masculine way.

"Believe it or not," she said, "I like nothing so much as a Ghillies ball. My father's cousin Hugh, the Marquess of Flintshire, has one every summer at Duneagle. I've worn out many a pair of dancing shoes reeling."

This new piece of information was most fascinating. From the rigid way Lady Mary waltzed, it was difficult to imagine her spinning and hopping around to the sound of the fiddle. On the other hand, she had already demonstrated her athleticism earlier today.

More and more, the young woman appeared to be quite a challenging puzzle and Richard found himself thinking that he would not mind spending as much time as needed to solve this one.

"Duneagle near Inverness?" he asked pleasantly, and she nodded the affirmative. "Our paths must have crossed before, then, since my family on my mother's side is from the area."

Sometimes, the world was smaller than one could have thought.

"Usually, I try to spend a few weeks up there each summer. Before the war, the Cairngorms were my training ground for more challenging mountains in the continent."

Unconsciously, Richard's arm tensed and drew his partner closer, just a little.

Mary doubted, very much, that their paths had ever come very near each other, that his people were any acquaintance of hers, but she did not, of course, say so.

"What a funny coincidence," was her only reply as the Flower Waltz crescendoed to its minor key transition, carried by the sonorous cellos and violas. She told herself the lapse of conversation was necessary as the nearer proximity increased the likelihood of one of them treading on the other's toes, requiring greater concentration on the dance steps, rather than an effect of Sir Richard's more intimate hold on her. She felt her shoulderblades twitch in response to the increased pressure of his hand below them. If he sensed her resistance to him, the pleasant expression on his face didn't show it, though after he twirled her to the trill of the returning woodwinds with the main theme, the more respectable distance between them was restored.

Smiling up at her partner, no longer worried about a misstep, Mary said, "Which do you find the more difficult climb: the Alps, or English society?"

The sudden tension in her shoulderblades did not go unnoticed under his fingertips. He was reminded of what Elsa had told him with mock seriousness three years ago, that _their lot_ was not used to dance as close to their partner as _his lot_. If he remembered correctly, the events before the war tended to become quite blurred lately, he had ignored her admonishment, which had granted him a summer invitation he never had been able to honour.

Contrary to Elsa, Lady Mary was not a widow, mother of two, accustomed to more intimate contact, so he schooled his arm into a more proper position, instantly missing the warm feeling that the close proximity had elicited.

_It had been a while since he last enjoyed the thrill of proper courtship._

_It had been a while since a woman last awoke his curiosity._

"Well, in spite of the common use of the word _climbing_ in each expression, these are different situations entirely," he answered honestly. "Climbing the social ladder demands quite a lack of modesty and a fair amount of self-confidence, over-confidence even, I might say. On the contrary, humility and prudence are the key the moment you start climbing a mountain."

Another _crescendo_ started, and Richard had to focus to avoid another twirling couple.

"It's what keeps me grounded," he admitted, surprising himself with his level of honesty.

Sir Richard was perhaps the most bluntly honest person she had ever encountered-certainly over a waltz-and as a person who never said what she meant, or meant what she said, she wasn't sure whether this characteristic was fascinating or frightening. The former, she decided, at least for now: truthfulness seemed so contradictory for a man who'd made his fortune perpetuating society rumors.

And it would be a change-such a much-needed change-to for once know exactly where she stood with a man.

"Are you feeling overly-confident and imprudent at the moment?" she asked.

Damn-his gesture had not gone totally unnoticed, innocent and unconscious as it was. On the other hand, if her flirtatious question was any indication, Lady Mary did not seem to mind the attention.

Accepting this invitation to Cliveden might prove most interesting in the end.

"More intrigued and hopeful, I'd say," he answered, using the last _crescendo _of the waltz to pull her a little closer - not entirely for courting purposes since he always found it easier to follow a quickening tempo this way. This time, there was no tension in her shoulderblades, and he relished the sight of her slightly tilted back head.

For the first time this evening, he let his eyes wander lower than her eyes and fix on her lips.

She smiled. _Intrigued_ was the correct answer, if there was one; for women like her, intrigue was as much an art to be learned as painting or music-and a more useful one, if one wanted to attract a husband and still maintain the appropriate boundaries between the sexes. Mary had always been aware of her own mastery, and it occurred to her now that if this houseparty were a part of the London season before the war...before Pamuk...before Matthew, Richard Carlisle-handsome and rich and with high social standing even though he'd climbed to it rather than been born to it-would have been precisely the man she would have hoped would be intrigued by her.

But she noticed how his gaze left hers to settle further down-on her lips-and she hoped he didn't feel her pulse hammer in her wrist beneath the pad of his thumb as she saw herself at Sybil's ball, in Matthew's arms. He'd spoken of hope, too, and when he'd led her off the dance floor and out onto the verandah, she hadn't stopped him kissing her beneath the starlit summer sky.

Did he look back now and think of that night? Or had he found another waltz partner, another woman's lips to kiss?

The music ended, though Mary's skirt twirled about their legs, and her head continued to spin for a moment after they stopped. Sir Richard's eyes returned to hers, and she smiled.

"In that case I hope I don't disappoint," she said. "Especially not on the tennis court tomorrow."

"From what I've witnessed this afternoon, I'm sure you won't," he answered, more than happy to cling to the safer topic of tennis. He had almost been carried away for a moment and needed to regain his footing again. "I've heard that Lord Gillingham's daughter is playing with a cousin, in spite of her father's rather vehement opposition. Apparently, sipping Lord Astor's champagne while commenting on the fraternization of the Allied and German troops on Christmas, 1914 is deemed more respectable and patriotic than engaging in an innocent tennis tournament. As if rugby games aren't being organized between the French and the New Zealanders as we speak."

Sarcasm and sport were a much safer topics indeed.

At the other end of the ballroom, a familiar short and broad-shouldered silhouette caught his eyes. Already, the men gathered around the white-haired man. Lloyd George knew how to make an impression. Suddenly, Richard could barely hear the music to which the oblivious couples danced, the schemes he had been elaborating this morning before meeting Lady Mary for the first time returning to precedence in his mind.

Richard did not like the Welshman's personality, but he had to accept that Lloyd George was the man for the job. Wilson's proposition of a ceasefire came either too late or too early - too much blood had been shed, yet still it was not enough. The only foreseeable future was a quick victory, and only a man like Lloyd George could grant Britain such a victory, not those incompetent fools presently leading the strategy.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Richard said. "Our brand new Secretary of State for War just arrived, fashionably late if I may say so, and there are a few questions I need to ask him." He tried to look apologetic enough when his mind was entirely focused on professional preoccupations now. If Lady Mary was half the woman he believed she was, she would understand this slight misstep.

The sooner the war would end, the better off everyone would be.


End file.
